"fleshed" poems
I wish I could be as vibrant and bold as a sunflower
Wish my petals could stretch towards the sun
in hopes of growing. I wish these pale painted
faces would stare in awh instead of disgust.
I wish I was as yellow as a sunflower
or maybe an oddly pink tone fleshed with red
I want my color to be praised not discussed
like dirt being picked out of fingers
I have come to the realization that I am a sunflower
Beautiful, bold, and magical
My brown petals stretch out from limb to limb
meeting at my bud with a smile so dazzling
and eyes small but fill with love and hope.
I am a sunflower in the boldest of ways possible
like coffee with no sugar no cream. I am loved like Jupiter
loves Juno, My brightness is appreciated like a full moon
at 12 midnight. I could fill a whole field with my petals
just for your grazing but you don't deserve it.
I am a sunflower. What are you?
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 8:57 PM UTC
Dye the ***** water with contaminates:
Blue #1,
and Sucralose, too.
Bend over to spray
the rotting road-kill with perfume.
Perfect the recipe
for what was fleshed and fruited
from animals and plants.
Photoshop the starved and diseased
with smiles
and beautiful bodies.
Clothe the *****
with lingerie, with heels,
and with stones.
Paint the roses red.
We paint the white roses red.
We’re painting the white roses red!
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
Sure, the Huns may be stronger, faster,
But I’ll tell you first, it’s not disaster.
They may be fearless, vice-less,
And the stakes this day are priceless.
That must weigh heavy on your mind,
And it might away at your spirits grind.
It makes your heart burn, your blood race,
But on this day, they will be erased.
They come, by day, by night,
To conquer us and flex their might.
Tonight, we’ll break their endless siege,
Perhaps we’ll **** their liege!
Let the sun blot with countless arrow,
They fly like the chattering sparrow.
Perhaps most will simply miss,
And you shall brave the wooden blitz.
That one, slash his head from his shoulder!
Watch it fall off like a fleshed-out boulder;
That’s it, keep riding, they’re already breaking!
Your wives will, on your return, be waiting.
Go back to hell from whence you came!
Of the besiegers, we’ve killed and maimed!
Haha, look at them run, back to their mothers;
Keep them running for a hundred summers!
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 6:06 PM UTC
.
Lear wanders in stormy open, bares warring elements,
The heavens blister, crackle, night is balmy shroud,
Wretched monarch babbles in sprinkles of wind cold,
Arguments lost by ones own pouring perturbations
And raining sky said 'nothing will come from nothing.'
Howl, howls into blackness treed in lightning splits,
His outcast soul, reels, fleshed, cut to smithereens,
Tang of salt burns on the bluffs and the sea rages,
So entire and ceremonious is Lear's fall meted out,
Air spoke, 'nothing from nothings ever yet was born.'
Sky proclaimed to man child King, here is a reckoning,
Each mad choice was self infliction, now wind flays
And sweet Cordelia lies in her innocent **** grave,
Sky, in thralls of thundering asks, 'what say thee now,
King of highborn follies, even purple heaths are rags,
Yet black and above you and night shades, whine,
Unworthy King, done in by compounded effects,
The might of maelstroms in low butterflies wings,
How now, bare trees, knifing reeds, skeletal flashes,
To rains of night are ever your lanyards my lord,'
Sad Lear so near oblivion fell mute, sky went on,
'Howl and cry mad King your reaper calls beyond,
The icy brisk heavens await to brusque you away,
Your slipshod kingdom was mere and fools' dream,
Howl, til howls abrupt abate, for nothing now comes.'
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
almost
at breaking point
almost
fleshed out of existence
she caresses
the white hospital cup
as if it were
a soft-feathered fallen dove
frightened and waiting
for a chance to fly again.
© M.L.Emmett
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
Stink up the beer house with unadorned putrid self-thoughts.
Poppy-eyed and hating others is easy for blue bottled buggers.
A sweet thing for you!
A growing circle of six-legged empty.
Filled to the brim with puffed up space. A white brim with a shiny red exoskeleton.
Oh, what a dreadful sight!
Hair strewn across a face and hooked into the teeth of the blushy lullabied insect screech.
Clear liquid not blood, but blood all the same on an empty stomach with full vein-shot bones.
Not milky bones with calcium-love..
A dead, deficient, cracked, neglected, insufficient skeletal frame, limp.
Yellowed with hate-smoke and old book notes.
Splintered, crazed and buzzed through the gridded bulging eye-window of every single one of those insect like Self-Loathers.
Chosen out of pure sympathy "We should talk more"
.......To the sun, the moon and the stars?
Every star mocks,
Every beam scoffs
and every moon likes to deride on the pain that hides beneath the lies of human bug eyes.
A simply formed pound of vertebrate flesh leaks soft plasma on the scaly moth floor.
Oh how we are dusty and unsure!
Forestry consisting of a Sitka Spruce and of a Japanese Larch was a claim I made from the start.
Over gardens of attention arachnid lurking selfish bugs and even those half winged "friend people".
The bell has rung the scariest of chimes and with every soul wrenching 'ding' a furry fang digs at the blotchy eyed, softly fleshed girl.
Oh such a sweet thing to be surrounded by selfish bugs who spin webs with tear stained tissues!
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
"There is a stillness that floods the moment"
a sky full of stars
***~~~
for you, poet, you
~~~***
*there is a stillness that floods
that exact moment,
the cutting chord moment,
that oddly has no
resounding chords
~
a stillness
that, simultaneous,
happily, sadly, accepted, lost,
all immediately,
by its very knowing
released acceptance,
for that is when
depression and joy,
a 1-2 punch of
raging quietude floods
the exactness of that moment
~
this shock of the calmness,
albeit brief,
jolt of kind,
jolt that slow mo's
pulsing prior air gasping
~
it comes when thinking*
done,
*it is done, yes done and I am undone,
having surgically cutting off
a limb, never bloodless, but
still relief waters flush the wound,
a granted, gifted joy floods,
permitting its escape tween the sutures,
in exhilarating exhalations
~
throw it down,
your extracted best,
lift up,
the fleshed out silhouette,
present it to the court and corps,
a farewell glance push,
finger caressing the send button
with ****** anticipation
for the lovely loving,
a vintage of the pre-regret
of completion
~
the poem is done, gone, ****** eliminated,
the light of eyes so peculiar to that moment,
when you have birthed a new born poem,
an acknowledgement of the stillness of a
closing loss,
the parting, the coming,
of a
peace of you
must too, be noted,
all deserving of equal rights*
~~~
July 12, 2015
NML
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC
from the smallest batch to the largest hatch
these cold fleshed beings are hard to catch
lurking slowly in dark places, but quick to find sight
when the cuisine arrives for their morning bite.
pellets, minerals, early catching worms
between swirling and dancing ferns
these wide finned beauties will show you a trait
making it hard to see them as bait
skittish and scattering from left to right,
to watch them and ponder is my true delight.
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 9:15 AM UTC
The distance between me and she
When easily traversed by arm extended,
And finger tips, always is;
Nearby means a wholeness,
And in it the reasons to stitch together
This moment and the next;
Savouring the experience of place
It makes more the whole
when we both partake of the view;
The flavours, of the labours,
Of the growing, of the plants, of the garden
Are ignited by them being for her;
The skeleton frame of our days,
Is fleshed with a texture soft and supple,
By the day-to-day of us;
The being apart is the punctuation
In the subsequent being together
Of a sentence we serve as one;
It's that glowing strand of highway
That may go short or long over the hill,
That we discover together.
In the silence of the night,
It's the weight of all the breaths
We will exhale and inhale together.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
He lived his eighty years well,
they said
he often knotted his wrinkled hands around the smooth fleshed hands of his grandchildren
still, his heart gave out eventually,
swollen with love
I went to his funeral, a bystander,
an intruder of grief
I take flowers to his grave,
purple tulips with petals
that eat up rain clouds
and sunlight like a ****
taking nourishment from
the red and white roses that
neighbour them
photosynthesis,
I recall the word,
from chemistry classes
an age ago
I never knew him, though
I got his name from a newspaper obituary I ideally flicked through at 4am
I had never known old age, you see
and it seemed beautiful to me
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 9:31 AM UTC
I see no other endless tomorrow than
To lie face to face with you
On a bed of lavenders and violets.
The cool sun magnifies
The verdant fields in your eyes
And the radiant shadows of my hair.
Morning breeze enshrouds our bodies
Sustained by flames more eternal than Vesta’s.
Here forever after
In my ideal world.
If I felt hunger it shall not last long,
For there are nectars from the giant continent that is you.
If you knew thirst it shall be quenched,
Just drink from my hidden wells and fountains.
But remember that I’m not like the ancient Eve
And you can only be the Adam in our own accord.
The butterflies or birds won’t shame me.
The grasses or trees won’t complain.
For loving you is the only truth
In my ideal world.
My hands are here to heal and amuse you,
As long as your arms embrace me from harm.
We own only the lips and ears
Where sweet sounds pass by
To lull as to dream or memorize
We’ll not know starless night of horror,
The way the moon becomes our constant watcher.
We’ll fear no lightning or thunder of wrath
For the rain will be our noble preserver.
Come and stay
In my ideal world.
We don’t have to worry about Sunday
Or think of God to pray.
Nature is our divine link to the cosmos,
And us the perpetual worship fleshed out.
Celestial or earthly we need not know
For this is the spot where boundaries depart.
But all these remain as bright colors in my head
Unless you key in yourself in my mind
And enshrine me to your heart.
Our story can be written by our breath
On petals and foliage of existence to this place.
Somewhere we can call ours,
Come and take
My ideal world.
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 2:16 AM UTC
Laying in bed today, listening to tunes
As I so often do
A feeling encroached, one I could not shake
Or attempt to lose
The sound of sadness, through the microphone
Blew the dust from my aging bones
Sunlight diffused, into the tomb
Of my desolate room
Shadows scattered, from their thrones
To reveal four walls of stone
Flowers dressed, this cold gray place
Where I woke from rest
Bare and unburdened, my blemished fleshed took its first steps
Bent but not broken, rebirthed, awoken
Jun 24, 2021
Jun 24, 2021 at 6:48 PM UTC
White fleshed the wild roots
cold in caves of soil the bulbs, the tubers
burst through aged brown clay, wet through mud slick rains
sun drunk buds of tulip leaves, petals painted pink
bird chirp and groan of ponds, a soft bedded mossy home
of woven fern and forest fronds, home to night's invisible frogs
white moon dogwood blooms, calls heard lovelorn
through an open window.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC
methinks thou confuseth
thy heart's impatient beating
with the tremulous and sonorous
summation of the immeasurable
wail of clocks ticking, begging,
listen!
these wondrous matches glorious
arranged in heaven,
where weighty watches
and yellowed human calendars
long ago dismissed, irrelevant,
discarded.
marked full well,
they did
upon thy heart,
when as babe
you drew first breath.
when thou will receive
love's bounty,
nothing more and nothing
less.
heavenly their watchfulness eternal,
impatience does not grant favour
to love long lasting,
ever true,
even if struck anew
with first impatient glance,
for much thought and endeavor,
masterfully planned,
thy turn scheduled,
recorded, awaiting only
for inevitable
discovery.
for though the streams of spring
rush full fleshed,
swollen forward,
thy truest love is
best read in the
gentle constance of
a gentle lake's
modest waves lapping,
like a beloved's
best ring finger
stroking thy cheek
in one continuous
caressing.
need not thou lament,
nor groan
with impatient travail,
fare thee well,
for the sails,
the course inexorable,
the destination prescribed,
foretold and heralded
upon the flags of thy eyes,
the banner of thy words,
that rest prepared upon
thy fullest and hungry
lips.
chance is but a
secondary miscreant,
whose role is but as narrator.
let's him speak infrequent,
but when comes his time
to conduct his sale,
well behooves you to
listen to that littlest of voices
you so oft disregard,
victim of your willful
fears!
the time, the play, the locale
all matched and set,
now we await only
your demonstration and forbearance
to honest augur the
greatest courage
to speak the hardest phrase
e're spoke:
I love thee more than myself.
for whence
can only be,
when thou breakbeat
the chains accursedly nominated as
Me First.
shout the key out loud
In the hour, nay, the instance,
thy first believe,
then long life and long love
can then
and
only then
commence.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
jia jia of supple plastic face
gracefully arranged hair
hands that gesture, eyes that roll
a lifelike porcelain doll
docile ****** expressions
perfect height to weight ratio
fluent in English and Mandarin
soothing, well-modulated tone
what can I do for you, my Lord?
the creator's goal
to refine programming
until jai jai can laugh and cry
learn to interact naturally
he calls her his
robot goddess
a wet-dream confection
with none of the messiness
of a full-fleshed playgirl
though she is artificial
and cannot feel
I pity my non-sentient sister
controlled by design
submission absolute
maybe she can fill
the hole left by women
who abandon conformity
to seek being real
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC
Our America sulks in the gutters,
in the rotten alleyways of those living in the shadows.
As corporations, as greed, as self-obsession
damages our life web.
Our America loves the lonely dying child,
as suburban 'mother's **** the illegal pool boy.
Our America peers through holey, worn fabrics
as bare-fleshed youth slaughter for
sweatshop brands.
Our America becomes the past
becomes unknown
becomes a dead fad
as mysterious men lure the idea of a future.
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 4:58 AM UTC
.as i once explained the concept of a seasonal diet to a pair of english pensioners, citing the Essex strawberry harvest, counter the Spanish winter imports... certain graveyards, in winter, can unnecessarily compete with museums, stressed as focal points during summer.
who is here,
to, expect...
comfortable?
i sacrifice the
aspect of museum,
in order,
to find a second tier
of peace...
within the confines
of cemeteries'
exfoliation
of statues...
weathered,
slightly hidden...
in guise,
of half living, half dead...
yet all the more:
ever watchful,
that persistent...
prosecutor stature...
with death...
the sole "ambiguity"
of a...
jury;
a jury...
with a persona non grata?!
mon deus!
but one answer:
je suis mort!
since?
it is really hard.. to re-appreciate revisiting
museums at this point...
whatever the ancient in modern
terms focus for the pre-Byzantine
marble...
the open air extravaganza
of statues in a Slavic cemetery?
weathered, chiseled by a shyness?
teased out of existence?
primordial in a focus
of being haunted?!
well... museums have nothing to offer,
given this fleshed out
excavation.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
i.
a girl once told me that sad people close their eyes
so they do not see the world anymore,
and that i should count sheep when i cannot fall
asleep and that her favourite flowers were azaleas.
she also told me that she keeps scabs
on her knees, and on sundays
she comes to me with bleeding wrists.
another girl paints artifice out
of artlessness and human flesh. she
has scalpels for arms and a tempest on
her thighs and she lives in the
mirror and when i blow
ii.
on her i understand, through air condensation
and self- anathema, that i am the girl that she
de-fleshed maliciously herself, slit out of the cardboard
and painted out in artifice and artlessness and
i am the girl that once told another girl to ******* cut
her arm off and i meant it so she would not hurt herself
again because
i am the kind of the girl with scabs on the bone
of her halo, because i believe halos are made of
nothing but cartilage and helium bones, and a heart
as transparent as a vampire and its split opened like a monarch
butterfly, ******* off
azaleas or malarias or other pathogens
giving infants cancerous proclivities and my eyes are
swollen in mauve from divestiture because i know too well
those sheep won't jump over the fence
anymore because they have been ****** raw
in the *** by inhumane prospensity and i understand that
sad people close their eyes because it reminds them of death.
iii.
death is a scientist that theorises the
duality of elusive particles in artificial marrows
and mediocre decolourised melancholia in discordance,
it is the finger forced into our tiny vein and
it is nothing but a dream within a dream
but i could care less and this poem
is not about death, it is about how i
like ugly girls and how i'm just sorry
that i do not taste as corrosive
as the bleach in her mouth.
iv.
when people are dying, they almost sound poetic.
v.
i am the girl humanised by ribbons of
flesh and bile and atrocity, and i am the girl who
understands that a 'broken heart' is
nothing but a metaphor for utter
disappointment.
i am the sleep that dreams long for,
hope for, phlebotomise for
and i am bitter.
vi.
i am bitter because i will not believe in sundays
unless one day, fortuitously, the sun osscilates,
in the most serene of all mannerisms, down the earth
and kills us all.
i am bitter because semantics does not authenticate
the abiding human apathy towards death
and all the flowers in her hair.
i am bitter because people only read my poetry
because they think it is about them.
i am bitter because of other horrible
reasons that words can simply not express.
vii.
ugly girls are always prettier
because god loves ugly
girls, because he ***** them harder than the
rest, and because they know how to
make others feel ugly.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 6:40 AM UTC
Death himself in the rain . . . death himself . . .
Death in the savage sunlight . . . skeletal death . . .
I hear the clack of his feet,
Clearly on stones, softly in dust;
He hurries among the trees
Whirling the leaves, tossing he hands from waves.
Listen! the immortal footsteps beat.
Death himself in the grass, death himself,
Gyrating invisibly in the sun,
Scatters the grass-blades, whips the wind,
Tears at boughs with malignant laughter:
On the long echoing air I hear him run.
Death himself in the dusk, gathering lilacs,
Breaking a white-fleshed bough,
Strewing purple on a cobwebbed lawn,
Dancing, dancing,
The long red sun-rays glancing
On flailing arms, skipping with hideous knees
Cavorting grotesque ecstasies:
I do not see him, but I see the lilacs fall,
I hear the scrape of knuckles against the wall,
The leaves are tossed and tremble where he plunges among them,
And I hear the sound of his breath,
Sharp and whistling, the rythm of death.
It is evening: the lights on a long street balance and sway.
In the purple ether they swing and silently sing,
The street is a gossamer swung in space,
And death himself in the wind comes dancing along it,
And the lights, like raindrops, tremble and swing.
Hurry, spider, and spread your glistening web,
For death approaches!
Hurry, rose, and open your heart to the bee,
For death approaches!
Maiden, let down your hair for the hands of your lover,
Comb it with moonlight and wreathe it with leaves,
For death approaches!
Death, huge in the star; small in the sand-grain;
Death himself in the rain,
Drawing the rain about him like a garment of jewels:
I hear the sound of his feet
On the stairs of the wind, in the sun,
In the forests of the sea . . .
Listen! the immortal footsteps beat!
1.6k
when the doll's hair
became so tangled a
wild toothed comb could
not soothe it,
I took the big scissors
in wild frustration
from the drawer in the kitchen
and hacked away at
Lucy's hair like a drunken
maniac.
her duck-speckled
printed eyes
closed their mechanical
lids each jolted snip
and a soft tick ticked
as coarse lashes hit
**** plastic
the more
that fell in chalk white chunks
from one side the more
I extracted from the other
like a wonky scale
until the spilt strands
covering the floor
tumbled tears down my
fleshed pink cheeks
and I ran away to hide
under the duvet.
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
Today I straightened all of the hairs on my head
whether they needed it or not. I like being organized.
Ironing out the kinks in my leather jacket with a baseball bat.
I try to cut the blues from the spinning record,
flicked numbered matchsticks across vinyl to
set the fleshed room on fire,
don’t touch me, I’m a real live wire.
Being on top of my **** is like handmaking
beeswax candles, I twist & turn, carving wax
in the air—There is always more to do, I
always tried to cross t’s and
sort the junk mail from the paychecks,
accidentally dropping cigarettes into the piles of post.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched you
lick postage stamps for the outgoing flood.
The laundry gets done even though I’m
too tired to pull my key out of the door.
I am in control of my own destiny.
I smoke Coca Cola & drink cigarettes for breakfast
because I don’t roll out of bed on the right side
of any given day, and
yesterday I put my foot
through the television
because tap-dancing on the shards
of the wood-paneled tube from dad’s first marriage
sings gnashed-teeth harmonies
with the microwave’s low groan at 3AM—
I used to eat cold spaghetti in torn jeans and nothing else
while you flipped through channels on basic cable
to hear the collage painting the end of the world. You were
always an empty can that year, you saved
orange peels to fill with oil to burn—
your name whispers itself into the grease hissings and
I hear it over the skyline and I cannot seem to find a match
to strike to light the last crumpled smoke in my pack—
All I want to do is send you photographs with singed corners,
photographs of your letters, attempts to burn away
any sight of you, ways to cut&bind; the flint that ignites
the only bonfire in my eye.
And sometimes I wish I could just scream at you until
the flowers crawl up the brick walls of your apartment;
my kitchen smells concrete like celluloid ashes and
if I snap my fingers to break broken promises and
floss my teeth with violin strings I might not miss you
anymore.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
I've got a prayer for you, my Lord,
It's not quite fleshed out, that's true.
I wonder if you can brandish your sword,
And cut us down to the few.
I know it's not the most popular
Or practical idea I could say,
But, let's face it, there's far too many
Of us to squeeze into heaven today.
Also, begging your pardon, my lord,
Most of us really are ****
We could do with a culling,
Before we take off and split.
You see, we're spawning like maggots
And spreading from pole to pole;
Slaying each other in your name,
With oil and land the goal.
Evolution was really quite clever,
A red herring for white-coated nerds;
Genetics our new religion,
As dinosaurs turned into birds.
We forgot your purposeful message,
To do onto others your will.
Instead we shoot the innocent,
And send their families the bill.
We buy and sell gold in our temples,
Our banks our churches of greed;
We care not at all for holy prayers,
Crosses, or rosary beads.
So spare us your soul-searching piety,
Leave off your crown of thorns.
Pick up your sword, strong and mighty,
And sound from your terrible horns.
Is it too much to ask for apocalypse?
Is it really that hard to do?
Or maybe you're far from omnipotent,
Or maybe, just maybe,
Not true.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 2:54 PM UTC
That beautiful sir keeps watchful eye over the land. He carries an armful of lilacs, he says nothing but walks, his black plumage glinting in the near-spring light. He swings something along his side. Too afraid to ask. Why does he hide it? That's because the trees have eyes.
Roasting, dripping pig flesh and sweet dough, cooking ever so slow. A warning whisper is sent through the woods. How do trees know? They have eyes.
One lilac drops on the floor above the decaying bird carcasses. There are bird carcasses. Is this one of the beautiful sir's kind? That cannot be. But it is because the trees have eyes. They don't say much, trees, but they send a whisper up the woods and warn the fleshed pork eaters of coming lights. Snap! Fire out. Don't make a sound. Can they hear?
And suddenly the trees whisper as loudly as trees can:
"RUN"
For the beautiful sir is hardly man. There swinging at his side is nothing but a human head hanging on some golden thread. There is a stench of death that could never be described as anything other than fear. The beautiful sir with his black plumage is death.
His head jerks and he looks the fleshéd in the eye
they know they are the next to die.
But, how did the trees know?
"That's because the trees have eyes."
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
.
Lear wanders in stormy open, bares warring elements,
The heavens blister, crackle, night is balmy shroud,
Wretched monarch babbles in sprinkles of wind cold,
Arguments lost by ones own pouring perturbations
And raining sky said 'nothing will come from nothing.'
Howl, howls into blackness treed in lightning splits,
His outcast soul, reels, fleshed, cut to smithereens,
Tang of salt burns on the bluffs and the sea rages,
So entire and ceremonious is Lear's fall meted out,
Air spoke, 'nothing from nothings ever yet was born.'
Sky proclaimed to man child King, here is a reckoning,
Each mad choice was self infliction, now wind flays
And sweet Cordelia lies in her innocent **** grave,
Sky, in thralls of thundering asks, 'what say thee now,
King of highborn follies, even purple heaths are rags,
Yet black and above you and night shades, whine,
Unworthy King, done in by compounded effects,
The might of maelstroms in low butterflies wings,
How now, bare trees, knifing reeds, skeletal flashes,
To rains of night are ever your lanyards my lord,'
Sad Lear so near oblivion fell mute, sky went on,
'Howl and cry mad King your reaper calls beyond,
The icy brisk heavens await to brusque you away,
Your slipshod kingdom was mere and fools' dream,
Howl, til howls abrupt abate, for nothing now comes.'
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC